The Mastermind and the Cyclist
by summerartist
Summary: Sherlock is a professional cyclist with the ambition of becoming a detective. He meets Doctor Watson and they become entangled with Moriarty's secrets and spies. Sherlock is playing a dangerous game that only John can save him from.


When John was called to the park to tend to a cyclist, he did not give the identity of his patient a second thought. All he knew was that a haughty woman who called herself an agent had demanded his help. Her employer had collapsed. John did not know if this meant she was a government agent, a movie star agent, or a representative of a company, he just knew he was needed.

He did not even ask how she got his number. John simply packed up his medical bag and flagged down a cab from his apartment.

It was a beautiful spring day. There was a slight breeze. It was sunny and the birds sang boisterously from the trees in the park. John limped as fast as he could to the concession stand, which was where he had been directed by the agent.

Already, a crowd of curious bystanders was forming, and John caught the words "famous" and "the very best, he really is, mummy!" from the chatty group.

When the doctor butted in, he froze. The patient was lying down, likely still unconscious; this was not a good sign. The man lying on the ground was at least 6 foot. He wore a blue and navy tight-fitting exercise suit. His brightly colored helmet was accented with a skull design, and from under it peeked curly, dark hair.

The first thing John noticed was that the cyclist was looking pale and gaunt, and his eyes were tight shut. A woman leaned over him, intruding into his space. She wore black office attire of a skirt and a blouse.

Her long, stringy hair obscured her expression. When John appeared on the scene, she rose and shooed away the on-lookers. She had not even bothered to inform the doctor if the patient had come-to. As soon as John knelt beside the cyclist, gray-blue eyes flew open and studied him.

"It's alright. I'm a doctor. Are you feeling any pain?" John asked as he took the man's pulse.

"No."

The athlete's voice rumbled through his slight body like the deep rumble of thunder.

"Were you dizzy?"

The man paused and answered. "A little."

"Right, I brought some water with me. We should get you sitting up. Your temperature and your pulse are good. Most likely you're dehydrated. Have you been sleeping well?"

"No." The athlete said matter-of-factly.

"Alright, let me help you up…here's the water."

While the thin man drank greedily, John asked him his name.

"Sherlock."

"_The_ Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes who won the-"

He was interrupted by the agent who returned to Sherlock's side with a pinched, impatient expression.

"Yes, yes. We'll pay you as soon as possible for your services, doctor. Thank you for arriving so promptly."

She clutched Sherlock's shoulder in a claw-like grip. John looked at her with a furrowed brow.

"There's no need to run away so quickly. I'm not from the press and Sherlock here needs to relax. If I were you, I would go buy him a snack while you're waiting. I need to make sure he won't faint again as soon as he stands up."

With a loud sigh, she snapped open her purse and tossed crackers and an energy bar at Sherlock. The cyclist caught the packages before they could hit him in the face. John found his gaze drawn to the dexterous, long fingers of the young man. They were delicate, like they belonged to an artist, yet, sinewy muscle rippled through his long arms. This man's voice and appearance were paradoxical, and John found himself attentively watching the tall man.

The agent left to go sit in a nearby bench while Sherlock ate. John relaxed when he found himself alone with his patient.

"C'mon. Let's find a more comfortable spot. This concrete is rough on the knees. The grass just over there looks dry."

He and Sherlock threw themselves bonelessly down on the turf. Sherlock opened the oatmeal bar and chewed self-consciously. John searched himself for topics of conversation.

"Why do you employ that woman? Oh God, sorry. That came out wrong."

"No, that's fine. I don't like her either."

John looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"I didn't employ her. I have a boss that hired her. It was an unusual situation. My employer was injured in a race and underwent surgery, so they say. Now he lives vicariously through me, like some parents do with their children."

"That is a very poetic way of putting it." John mused.

"He is not the easiest man to be sponsored by. He is very strict with my training."

"No encouraging unhealthy habits, I hope." John wondered.

"No, he doesn't at all; he texts me often to remind me to eat. He restricts me from over exercising before a race as well."

"Good."

They fell into silence.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Excuse me, what?" John stammered.

"You recently returned from military service. You live alone at a flat and you have a therapist."

"Have you researched me or something?"

"No, I observed it."

Sherlock than began to rattle off facts about John's tan, his limp, and the state of his clothes.

"That was amazing!" John said.

Sherlock blinked several times at him, his face tinting red. John swallowed a laugh. Before they left and went about their day, John gave his phone number to Sherlock, telling him he was welcome to call if he had any future problems, or if he simply wanted a chat in the pub.

* * *

John did not hear from Sherlock for two weeks. He almost forgot about the incident when he received a text.

Meet me at the park within the hour. Come if convenient, if inconvenient, come anyway.

-SH

Grumbling at the presumptuous attitudes of the famous, John made his way to the park. The sky was overcast and the air was cool. Storm clouds were on the horizon.

Not many people were out walking in the gloomy weather. John pulled his jacket tighter around himself, casting the black and gray clouds a wary look. The breeze tickled his neck and ruffled his hair.

It did not take long to find Sherlock. He was looking unearthly pale. He stood beside two bicycles, one a sleek black, the other a pale gold with a matching helmet hooked over the seat.

John sincerely hoped Sherlock had brought the two bikes only for himself.

"Hello."

Sherlock just stared back at him, eyes shadowed.

"You okay? You look tired."

"I'm fine." Sherlock muttered quietly.

"Right, I got your text. What did you want to talk about?" John inquired.

"Ride with me." Sherlock ordered, pushing the gold helmet into John's hands.

"Wait a minute. You can't just tell me to cycle with you."

"Can't I?" Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

"Yes. I haven't cycled in years. You are a professional at this and I wouldn't be able to keep up."

"You'll lose the race then."

Sherlock gracefully slid onto his bike in one smooth motion. He winked at John and took off. Even though it looked like he could go a hundred times faster, he pedaled slowly, and John found himself clipping on the helmet and following.

After a few embarrassing wobbly starts and banged shins, he caught up with Sherlock. The athlete grinned at him, his eyes alight. Somehow, he managed to make it look like the bike was part of him, not a mechanical system of metal and gears he was balancing on. He pedaled effortlessly, crouching over the handlebars in typical racer fashion. John did not have the strength, so he relied on the seat to hold him up, which was more uncomfortable.

"You make it look so easy."

Sherlock smirked. They started to pedal up a slope.

"Believe it or not, John, I didn't ask you here as an audience to show off for. Its- I have a problem. I need someone to know of it in case something happens to me."

John's bicycle dipped into a pothole, and he clung onto the handlebars to stay seated.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Another cyclist has been following me whenever I go out alone."

"A fan?"

"No. He doesn't attempt to make contact. He wears a fake beard and large sunglasses. I can only deduce his basic physical features. He's blond, muscular, thin, he has sharp eyesight, and he is over 6 foot."

"So, you think he's going to attack you?" John frowned.

"No. I think he is trying to protect me."

Sweating a little, John reached the crest of the hill with Sherlock.

"Who is he protecting you from?"

"I don't know," Sherlock growled. "I need to investigate further, but I needed to notify someone to handle the details in case I go missing. Scotland Yard needs all of the help it can get when searching for missing persons."

"You don't think it could be that dangerous, do you?" John spluttered.

"It might."

At the top of the hill they stopped pedaling. As they gathered speed downhill, John held his head up. The air was whipping by. The trees blended together in a dazzling green blur. The speed made his heart pound, and yet his mind was becalmed and tranquil. He inhaled the fresh air and smiled.

"I can see why you cycle." John said quietly.

He looked over at Sherlock, who had a similar pleased expression. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes focused back on the road.

"John, pothole!"

"Wha-"

The gold-hued handlebars tried to twist out of his grasp.

"Oh damn."

He managed to cling to the bike, putting pressure down through his arms.

"Ah!" The muscles in his arms spasmed and the doctor cried out.

Sherlock braked and flew to his side, quick as a flash.

"How badly did you strain it? Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm fine."

The doctor clutched at his old bullet wound, mouth open in a silent gasp of pain. He didn't even ask how Sherlock knew about his war wound. While he was frozen in agony, Sherlock rifled through his backpack. The first flecks of rain started to sprinkle down from the murky sky. Sherlock threw an oddly heavy packet of fabric at John.

"What's this?"

"Heating pad. I always have one with me just in case."

John placed it near his collarbone and sighed, letting his muscles loosen.

"Let's walk back, no point in jouncing that more by riding." Sherlock said rationally.

There was a tense silence as the pair walked back up the road they came from. The birds were silent. The air hummed with the storm, and the rain continued to sprinkle down.

"So, let's review the facts. Some bloke is following you to protect you. You have no idea why he is doing this. You are telling me this before you look into the matter in the off-chance something happens to you. There has to be more to this that you aren't telling me." John said suspiciously.

Sherlock's features were pinched. He grimaced as if expecting the accusation.

"There are rumors that my sponsor is not of a stellar character. I suspect this business has to do with him."

"What sort of rumors are they?" The doctor wondered.

He has another source of income he keeps hidden. The payments are sporadic and large. His intelligence, his employees, and everything else about him points to him orchestrating crime."

"Like in a James Bond film?"

John chuckled and Sherlock's brow crinkled in confusion.

"Who is the man that's been following you? Some good-hearted MI-7 agent?" John laughed.

"Possibly."

John smirked incredulously.

"I have high connections," said Sherlock defensively.

"The PM?"

"No, but close, I have the ear of the British government. My brother has a position in the government that allows him to pull strings whenever he needs to. He often uses his influence to spy on me. It's no surprise that my overbearing brother should send a military man to watch over me. Though, little does he know, I already have a military friend."

"I could hardly be any protection in my state." John said grimly.

"Given time, you would be surprised how mobile injuries can become."

"It's good to know that at least one of us is holding out with hope for me." The doctor said wearily.

"I would like to see your scar sometime. It's just a scientific curiosity of mine to study wounds."

John hesitated briefly. "I don't see why not."

"Great! When-"

"Not until we've solved your case." John reminded him.

"You mean 'when I've solved.' You won't be going with me." Sherlock said contritely.

"And why not?"

"You've just recently got over an infection with your wound and the case is my problem, not yours."

"I'm hardly bedridden with illness, Sherlock. And I want to help you with this. It isn't like I have much else to do."

"You could get hurt." The cyclist muttered.

"I think it is a little bit late to think about preserving my obviously robust health. Ring me when you start poking around."

Sherlock spun around to face him.

"John, where is your cane?"

They had reached the entrance of the park again, and Sherlock was smiling smugly.

"I must have left it back at the flat…oh."

"You did just ride a bicycle, John."

"I did, didn't I?" John Watson grinned.

"Well, my ride is here and you have shelter from the rain to seek."

"Right, here's the hot pad."

John lifted off the warm pad and tried to hand it over.

"Keep it. I have a least a dozen more at home."

John graciously accepted it. The warmth was doing wonders for his shoulder.

"Call me." John urged him one last time.

Sherlock just looked back at him, expression inscrutable. Gray eyes studied him. John shifted his weight from side to side, boldly staring back. Sherlock turned away and wheeled the bicycles into the back of a large van.

John grimaced as the car door shut behind the young man. He doubted that Sherlock was the type to listen to anyone, much less him. With a heavy heart, he watched the black van pull out and take the athlete away.

John was not expecting Sherlock to call anytime soon. He tried to fill his schedule with mundane activities. He would go job hunting, frequent the bookstore, or clean his dingy little flat. The days melted into one another pleasantly, though John still itched to do something more meaningful with his time. His shoulder stopped hurting, though it still ached every so often. When the nights dragged on, he found himself blogging about his meeting with Sherlock Holmes. All the while, he wondered where Sherlock was now and he hoped that he was not nosing into affairs best left alone.

* * *

Sherlock knew he was onto something sinister. He had opened Mr. Moriarty's safe tonight on the pretense of locating the bathroom during dinner. He knew he was caught on the security cameras, but as long as he left nothing disturbed, the house guards should have no reason to look through the footage.

He knew he should be playing the game with more care, but it did not matter if Moriarty found out. The sponsor already knew Sherlock was habitually curious. So, if Sherlock's theories should turn out wrong, who was there to care? If his theories were true, however, he was confident he could find a bobby within hailing distance.

The safe was filled with a pile of gold and some floppy disks and flash drives. The gold was French, judging by the markings. It was undoubtedly stolen. It looked to be newly minted and untouched. The gleaming treasure was enough to support a small country. He felt tempted to snatch out a flash drive to assess, but instead he darted off to wash and dry his hands in the loo. It was best to keep up the act.

He had only told John part of his tale that day in the park. Sebastian Moran, one of Moriarty's friends, was the most dangerous man in London. Perhaps his rank would be bumped down to second place if he was correct about Moriarty's habits. Moriarty could very well be the brain behind many recent diamond heists or several cold cases of abduction and murder.

Moran had been the one following Sherlock on the bicycle, he was sure of it. Sherlock had a hunch about why. Sherlock had recently hacked the computer system of the house to find several codes. Some of which made no sense, while others were security numbers into the various gates and passages of the house.

He had found the safe number in this way, though why Moriarty had not kept the important code to himself, he could only guess. Moran had probably discovered Sherlock's little excursion into his friend's files and started to tail him to see if he would do anything with the knowledge.

Sherlock was certain now he had gotten in too deep. Moriarty was a burglar at the very least; the gold was proof of that. Why had Moran not killed him for the breach in security? Perhaps it would look suspicious if Sherlock suddenly vanished and they did not want the Yard to investigate the premises. Or…Sherlock's eyes widened. It was John who had unwittingly saved him.

That day he had collapsed in the park had been the day he had hacked into Moriarty's computer system. John knew he was whole and hale when last he was seen, and who knew what Sherlock had told John about his employer. That meant someone was probably following John at this very moment. He stopped rubbing his hands nervously together, time to rejoin the dinner party.

Moriarty's house was small, but opulent. Every doorway was gilded with illustrations of angels and characters from the Bible. There were many rooms furnished with a quirky representation of hell. Demons smirked upon the mantle pieces, and saddened painted angels hovered about the ceiling. The dining room was dark, but rich with red velvet padded seats on the mahogany chairs. The table was rectangular. Moriarty had few guests tonight, and he had no need to impress anyone, so he was seated at the head of the table with Moran at his right and Sherlock took his vacant chair at his left. Sherlock's agent sat beside him, hardly touching her food. She was a boring individual. She always had a sour expression on her face and never contributed thoughtfully to discussions.

Sherlock was quiet for the remainder of dinner, watching Moriarty's dinner guests talk about politics and the economy. There were politicians, neighbors, and secretaries at the table. Sherlock felt out of place and bored. Daring a glance at Moriarty, he noted his sponsor was deep in thought. His dark eyes were on his roast beef, twirling his fork absent-mindedly in the gravy. He smiled insincerely at Sherlock when he caught his eye. Sherlock hurriedly concentrated on his plate of vegetables and dessert fruits. God, he hated his planty, leafy diet.

Suddenly, Moriarty spoke up.

"Mr. Milverton, remember our appointment tomorrow morning."

"Of course."

Moriarty said nothing else that night. He let Moran bid his guests a good evening. Sherlock was ushered out the door with them. Blinking up at the starry, cool sky, he made a decision. He owed it to the laws of England, nay, England itself, to investigate further. It looked like he had a party to crash tomorrow morning.

* * *

Sherlock skipped sleep entirely. He dosed himself with coffee and paced about his London flat, mulling everything over. He slipped two pairs of handcuffs into his zippered jacket pocket. (The handcuffs were pick pocketed by none other than Inspector Lestrade) He was hidden away in Moriarty's bushes by 4:00 AM. He sat and waited. He would compare it to a hunter waiting to ensnare the big game. Every moment of waiting only caused his heart to pump harder and his blood tingled in his veins.

There! Right at 6:00 AM the garage door opened and a sleek black vehicle pulled out and rumbled down the road. Sherlock dragged his bicycle out of the bushes and followed. The car was moving slowly, so he pedaled leisurely, hanging back. By all appearances he was just another early morning cyclist. He wore dark, unidentifiable clothing, propping himself up on the seat like John and other beginners had done.

While in more populated areas of London, the car was easy to lose. He was falling behind rapidly, and he searched his memory for anything that would help him catch up. At last he saw the car take the long, meandering way around a string of textile factories. He took the shortcut via the other road in the fork. By his calculations, he should be the perfect distance from the car when it emerged from around the bend.

He kept his gaze fixed ahead. Where had the car got to? It should be just ahead. The black car emerged around the bend, clipping Sherlock's bike too close, pulling it into the side of the building. Sherlock jumped off before it made contact. He landed on the boot of the car, clinging onto the decorative tailfins. Gasping, we watched his favorite bike in his collection being bent into scrap by the cement walls and the car wheels. The sound was shrill and he was lightly smacked in the head with the handlebar that was run over seconds later.

Any minute they would look back and see him. He was certain he would be shot if he did not get away. He jumped off of the car, rolling with the motion. The road scraped and dug into his skin. Pebbles stuck to him and his face was covered with dirt.

Scrambling to his feet, aching and sore, he ran through an alleyway and ducked behind a trash bin. His heart was hammering in his chest. He smiled to himself. These criminals were very clever. He slipped out his phone from his pants pocket and rang John.

" 'Ello?"

"John. I'm at Marty Avenue. Get Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Yard to come." Sherlock whispered. He heard several car doors slam. Men in fashionable suits were searching around the block to locate him. All three had handguns.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? You sound strange. Are you alright?"

"Can't talk, they'll find me."

He heard John suck in a breath on the other end of the line.

The men started coming towards his hideout. Sherlock ended the call. Oh, damnation!

Two wore sunglasses and one had a craggy face. They all wore a frown and he could tell that the one had murder in his eyes. He considered making a run for it, but he was so blocked off in the dingy little alleyway, he prepared to fight. Man in sunglasses number one slugged him. Sherlock ducked and twisted his arm behind his back, then slammed his kneecap into the man's face. The man groaned, clutching his bleeding nose. The other two pulled their handguns on him. Damn!

"Hands behind your head and get on your knees!"

Sherlock did so with a sigh.

"You're Mr. Moriarty's little cyclist project, aren't you? Been poking your nose where it doesn't belong, have you? I hope it was worth your trouble."

"Why else would I bother to follow three idiots? Moriarty won't be happy you very nearly killed me."

"When you start interfering with his trading business you can be the Queen for all he cares, he'll still capture or kill you. Were you planning to sell the letters for yourself, or were you paid to fetch them?"

"I'm not acting alone." Sherlock had John on his side.

"Liar."

"Why should I want the letters for myself? Surely they can't be that valuable." Sherlock scoffed.

"If you knew Mr. Milverton, you would know that everything about his business is valuable."

Sherlock's mind continued to whirr with activity. A blackmailer? There were few of those these days. Most that came under that title were reporters.

Man without sunglasses nodded to sunglasses number two. Sherlock was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and a handkerchief was pressed over his face. Chloroform, was his last hazy thought.

Right at that moment, a taxi drove up. A small man jumped out and ran up to the group, though he was out-manned and out-gunned he calmly pointed his gun at them. The taxi driver raced back down the road, tires screeching. He was not going to be in the crossfire of this gang fight.

John looked from one man to the others. Then he focused his gaze on Sherlock. He was unconscious, held under the armpits by a larger man, drooping like a rag doll. He was scraped up looking and pale. John's forehead creased, blue eyes squinting.

"The Yard is right behind me. Release him."

"You're lying. Put the gun down before anyone gets hurt, or we'll shoot your friend here." One of the three sneered.

They held a gun to Sherlock's head. John's heart beat a staccato rhythm and he slowly laid down his firearm.

They all turned around, hearing a siren behind them. They let go of Sherlock, who flopped down on the ground, bringing up a cloud of dust and filth.

The three men ran for the car, and John picked up his gun and fired, not at them, but at the car tires. The wheels quickly went flat. One man shot back and John hit the ground as fire whizzed over him. A team of police surrounded the car, and John sighed heavily while they were talked down and slapped in handcuffs. Heart still hammering, he ran over to Sherlock.

"Please be ok. Please be ok." He muttered over and over like a mantra. He knelt in the dirty alleyway beside his friend. Sherlock lay motionless. He turned Sherlock on his side and arranged his unresponsive body into recovery position and felt his pulse. It was still there and strong. Sitting back with a sigh, he waited for the Yard to come talk to him.

The graying Detective Inspector Lestrade eventually walked over to take a look at Sherlock.

"He hasn't been shot, has he?"

"No, just knocked unconscious. Thank God you got here in time." John breathed.

"Well, we're lucky you called us as soon as you did. Sherlock gets into too much trouble even when he isn't on the streets." Lestrade said darkly.

John frowned at him. What was that at about Sherlock on the streets? Sherlock twitched lazily.

"Want me to get an ambulance for him? He looks like he'll be unconscious for a little while longer."

"No, I'll stay until he wakes up, though if you could find a blanket for him, I'd be grateful. It's a bit too cold out to be in a workout suit."

* * *

When Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, his vision was assaulted by the color orange. He was wrapped in a bright shock blanket on the ground. John was smiling at him, police lights reflecting off his tan skin.

"Feel alright?"

"Yeah, did they get them? Has the Yard-" Sherlock struggled to sit up, alarmed.

"The Yard has them. They found stuff in the car that they won't tell anyone about, but all three of those men have been arrested. Do they work for your employer?"

"Yes." Sherlock lay back down, drained and exhausted.

His head lay on a soft black bundle, John's coat.

"It looks like you're out of a job." John wished he had not said that, too callous.

"I don't fancy being a cyclist anymore. I might as well leave it open to the younger athletes; I knew it was only a temporary job anyway. Besides, I think I have my mind set on another career."

"Oh?"

"A detective is more up my alley. Not with the police force, it would be too droll with all of that paperwork; I think I want to be a consulting detective."

"I've never heard of it," said John skeptically.

"Nor have I."

"Are you sure you didn't hit your head?" John reached out to check his head for lumps, but was batted away.

"They used chloroform. It isn't such a ridiculous idea to become a consulting detective." Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm starting to think everything about you is ridiculous."

Sherlock smirked, getting to his feet, wobbling precariously.

John took his arm and led him away. Lestrade jogged after them.

"Where are you two going? We still have questions to ask you."

"Phone me later." Sherlock yelled back.

"Want to grab a bite and go flat hunting? I have a new semi-commercial premise to find for myself and my detective assistant. Baker Street looks like a good busy area, cleaner than most. Let's nip into the bakery here." Sherlock rattled on to John.

As John listened to Sherlock chat and they walked down the street, Lestrade watched them go with a peculiar expression on his face. He looked about to laugh or frown and Donovan asked what was wrong.

"Those two are going to cause a lot of trouble, I have a feeling." Shaking his head, he went back to his forensic team to discuss their findings.

John's echoing laugh could be heard across the block.

End


End file.
